


Let It Snow

by dollylux



Series: Fic Advent Calendar 2014: Brothers, Soulmates, and Other Such Sexiness [3]
Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Coffee Shops, Cold Weather, Cuddling & Snuggling, Kissing, M/M, New York City, Snow, book nerds
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-04
Updated: 2014-12-04
Packaged: 2018-02-28 02:25:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2715503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dollylux/pseuds/dollylux
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the very snowy days leading up to Christmas, a beautiful man keeps coming into the coffeeshop Jensen works at. (My little love letter to St. Mark's Place and Alphabet City in NYC.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Let It Snow

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tebtosca](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tebtosca/gifts).



> Day three of my advent fic challenge. Prompt: cold.

I Am Coffee is a tiny coffeehouse tucked between two storefronts on St. Mark’s Place. New York City has an impressive collection of coffeeshops, and I Am Coffee is just a drop in the caffeinated bucket. But it has a loyal if small clientele, and it takes pride in every cup it creates.

Jensen has worked here for going on two years now, and it’s the only job he’s ever had that he didn’t just flat-out hate after six months. People are chill for the most part, even during the crazed morning rush, and his schedule allows him to play gigs with Jason whenever they manage to book them around town.

He has to share an apartment with two other guys in order to survive, but hey. He’s living in New York City. He’s kind of the plot of a 90s sitcom here. Not too bad.

“Caramel macchiato, skim, extra-hot, extra-whip,” Sandy calls to Jensen over her shoulder. Jensen barely resists the urge to roll his eyes, reminding himself that it’s two weeks before Christmas and people are a little extra crazy this time of year. 

He ignores the fact that this particular macchiato woman has been coming in for over six months, same time every Wednesday and Thursday. She was just as picky in August.

“Decaf soy latte with cream. Extra shot.”

“Half-caff soy heated at 120 degrees.”

“Half and half, ten pumps of vanilla, extra whip.”

The shop is almost downright chilly by the time it empties out in the late afternoon with the amount of times the door has been opened, and only a few very committed coffee drinkers here now, sipping from their cups and engrossed in their computer screens or their books.

Jensen reaches back, about to untie his apron and take a ten minute break, when he hears a throat clear behind him.

He holds in a sigh.

He turns around, realizing then that he’s been abandoned by Sandy and Adrianne, and that he’s going to have to deal with this guy whether he likes it or not.

“Hey, man, what can I get you?”

Jensen wipes his hands a towel that he slings back over his shoulder, finally lifting his tired eyes to his latest customer. 

The guy is shivering, snow unmelted on his shoulders and the top of his messy, dark hair, the tips of his ears and the ski slope curve of his nose an alarming shade of pink. He’s bundled up in layers: a flannel shirt over top his Pearl Jam shirt and a hoodie over that, black fingerless gloves on the hands now digging through change in one of his large palms, his fingers that same, frozen pink.

Jensen is torn between being concerned and whimpering for how unexpectedly, devastatingly beautiful the guy is.

“Hey, yeah, sorry, uh.” The guy lifts his eyes and squints at the menu scratched in chalk above Jensen’s head, perusing it for just a few seconds before he looks straight into Jensen’s eyes for the first time. “Can I just get a coffee?”

Jensen blinks, head tipping to the side like a confused dog.

“Just…? I mean, like.” Jensen licks his lips, hands gripping the worn edge of the old counter. “Just a black coffee?”

“If… I mean, you guys have that, right?” Another lift of those strange-beautiful eyes, a flick of them over the menu and they’re back on Jensen. “Or do I have to ask for vanilla? Is that the magic word?”

Jensen gives a surprised little laugh, blinking out of his trance and lowering his eyes bashfully as he taps the computer screen in front of him.

“Sorry, it’s just… nobody really orders just coffee anymore. They have to twist and torture it into a drinkable dessert before they’ll touch it.” 

“Twist and torture, huh? Like orcs.” The guy sounds almost thoughtful as Jensen turns around and grabs a cup, filling it up with gorgeous dark brown, pure coffee. He raises an eyebrow at the guy when he turns back around, a smile pulling hard at one side of his mouth. The guy’s grinning at him, dimples winking like secret weapons.

Jensen passes the coffee across the counter to him, their fingers ghosting, some of that frozen cold from the guy’s hand seeping into Jensen’s warm skin. He shivers.

“Orcs?”

“Yeah, you know. Orcs are just tortured elves.” 

“$2.78. So… your black coffee there is the elf of the coffee world?”

The guy hands over the change which is warm from apparently being in his pocket, and Jensen dumps it into the register drawer as quick as he can so he can look up and catch the look on the guy’s face. 

That smile grows even bigger as he looks down at his steaming cup of coffee with a newfound appreciation for it, bottom lip jutting out thoughtfully as he nods.

“Yeah. Yeah, I guess it is.” 

Jensen laughs, soft and almost shyly flirtatious as he closes the drawer back, a hand sliding to his back to tug his apron loose.

“Alright, Elrond. Enjoy. Sugar and stuff’s over there.” Jensen nods to the little station behind Jared. “Lemme know if you need anything else.”

“Will do. Thanks.” One last smile and the guy’s walking away, heading toward a chair near the bookshelf in the far left corner. Jensen watches him while he pulls his apron off and folds it up neatly, watches the guy sink down into the chair and put his coffee on the table in front of him before he pulls a book out of the bag he drops onto the floor. _Child of God_ by Cormac McCarthy.

Beautiful frozen guy is a reader. Nice.

When Jensen comes back from break, the guy’s still there, long legs pulled up into the chair, coffee in his hand, glasses perched on the end of his nose while he reads the book he’s got braced on the arm of the chair. He’s got a puddled circle of water surrounding his chair as the snow melts off of him, like he’s a snowman reading sad, violent books right here in the coffeeshop.

Jensen smiles, pulls his apron back over his head, and ventures out onto the floor, trying his best not to stare the whole time.

He clears the tables of cups and plates and napkins and spare change left for tips, wiping them off with his towel. He works his way slowly toward Cold Boy, trying to be quiet and not disturb his (adorable) reading. The guy looks up when Jensen grabs a plate off of the coffee table in front of him, and when their eyes meet, Jensen’s mouth pulls into a sheepish smile.

“Sorry.”

“No worries.” Cold Boy closes the book up around one of his long fingers and turns his full attention to Jensen, all the cold thawed off of his kind face, his hair damp from melted snow. 

“You want a refill?” Jensen motions at the nearly empty coffee cup tucked against the guy’s broad chest. The guy looks down at his cup with a frown, seeming to deliberate before Jensen pieces a few things together.

“No charge,” he adds, and his suspicions are confirmed when the guy glances back up at him with a relieved smile.

“Yeah. That’d be great. Thanks.”

Jensen retrieves the coffeepot, keeping his eyes down in an annoying fit of bashfulness as he refills the cup in the guy’s hand. When he manages to look up, the guy is already looking at him, both of his chilly hands wrapped around the warm cup. His smile makes Jensen want to burrow under a warm blanket and close his eyes and listen to the sounds of winter in the East Village.

“Thank you.”

Jensen only nods his reply, at a sudden loss for words. He makes his way back behind the counter just as the bell above the door rings, announcing a new customer.

It doesn’t let up again until just minutes before close. Jensen turns around from the machines he’s wiping down, his back aching from standing up for so long in one spot. He wipes the sweat from his forehead and turns around to face the front of the shop for the first time in almost three hours, eyes trailing over the stragglers still around, and he’s amazed when he sees the guy, his frozen guy from hours ago, is still here.

He’s reading a new book now, one from the bookshelf beside him, some old, leatherbound volume that looks a little more daunting than the slim novel he’d come in with. 

“Last call,” Jensen says into the chilled quiet of low acoustic music and murmured conversations, quite pleased with himself when Cold Boy’s head jerks up, eyes seeking him out immediately. Jensen smiles at him, giving him a dopey, childish wave of his fingers that makes the guy’s whole face light up.

A woman suddenly blocks the space between them, her smile bright and flirty. Jensen refocuses and gives her a patient smile, ready for her needlessly picky coffee order. 

Right as he turns around to make her peppermint-caramel no-foam soy latte, he sees Cold Boy stand up, tugging his bag up onto his shoulder and weaving his way out of the café, back out into the cold night where the snow is still falling.

There are two quarters left beside the empty coffeecup on the table where the guy had spent his evening, and the sight of them makes Jensen’s chest tighten. Obviously the guy had been low on funds for whatever reason. Fifty cents is a hell of a lot when all you’re working with is a pocket full of change.

He mumbles the girl’s latte order to Adrianne and grabs a to-go cup, pouring the last of the coffeepot on the warmer, snatching up a lid for it while he dashes around the counter as carefully as he can. He bursts outside and looks right and then left, seeing the guy’s retreating, long body making its way up St. Mark’s, snow falling on him once again, already clinging to his worn hoodie.

“Elrond!”

The guy pauses, like maybe he hadn’t heard right. He turns, an incredulous look on his face, and he grins when his still bespeckled eyes find Jensen. Jensen feels struck with how tall the guy is, with how striking and lovely he is, with how kind his smile is. He lifts the cup in his hand stupidly, the coffee sloshing inside of it.

“One for the road?”

He starts walking toward him, the guy meeting him halfway. Jensen is freezing his ass off in his t-shirt, but the air smells clean, pure, like it does at absolutely no other time in New York City. The guy is standing in front of him now, so close that Jensen can feel the heat from his body. He sends up a quiet prayer that the guy stays warm for the rest of the night.

He hands the cup over, fingertips tingling when they touch the boy’s skin.

“You’re amazing. Thanks.”

“Stay warm, alright?” He knows he sounds like his mother, can hear her even in his inflection. He cringes inwardly, hoping the guy isn’t picturing his own mother now. The guy smiles again, lowering his gaze down to where he’s fidgeting with the lid on the cup, the movement an intimate one with how close they’re standing, with the strange but strong connection Jensen feels to him that he hasn’t been able to shake all evening.

“Goodnight,” the guy murmurs, lifting his eyes to Jensen one last time before he nods his goodbye and turns to walk away once more, leaving Jensen empty-handed and staring after him, a sigh passing his lips, a puff of warmth in the freezing air.

 

It’s been four days, and the guy hasn’t been back.

Jensen truly tries not to think about it, tries not to take it personally. Maybe he was in town visiting someone, and he’s flown back home. Maybe he lives in Brooklyn and was in Manhattan for the day and doesn't really come to the East Village that often. Maybe Jensen creeped him out with his mama birding and the guy went home and told his girlfriend about it while they spooned.

Okay, maybe he’s thinking about it a little bit.

He’s putting out some freshly-baked croissants on the fourth afternoon when he finally turns to Sandy who is texting covertly, her back turned to the customers.

“Hey, Sand. You’re good with faces, right?”

Sandy gives a grunt that Jensen takes as a _yes_ , and Jensen turns his attention back to making sure the muffins are perfectly spaced.

“Have you seen a guy come in that’s like. He’s a few inches taller than me, got one of those swimmer’s bodies, you know?”

Sandy is looking at him now, her eyebrows raised. “I’m listening.”

Jensen’s cheeks heat up.

“Um. Got long hair, brown and kinda shaggy. He comes in and stays for awhile and reads the whole time? Wears black reading glasses and has these huge--”

“Jensen?”

Jensen looks over at her, standing up again and closing the pastry case.

“Yeah?”

She’s grinning.

“You got a crush or somethin’?”

Jensen scoffs, wiping his hands off on his ever-present towel and doesn’t bother meeting her eyes again.

“No. I mean, he’s cute and all, I just…” He huffs, folding his arms over his chest and narrowing his eyes at her. “Look, have you seen him or not?”

“Hm. Not that I can remember, honey. He sounds kinda unforgettable, so I doubt it. I’ll let you know if I do, okay?” She gives his arm a squeeze, and he gives her a brief smile of thanks before he’s heading to the back to pout and wash some dishes.

He finally returns two days later, right in the middle of the mad afternoon rush, people out Christmas shopping in spite of the veritable blizzard going on outside right now. Jensen has a pretty brutal burn across his palm from accidentally grabbing hold of a metal cup of scalding milk, and it hurts like a bitch with every drink he makes.

“Black coffee, Jen,” Adrianne calls out, and Jensen spins around, his eyes wide and hopeful. There he is, his Cold Boy: his hair pulled back this time but he’s just as frozen, maybe even moreso than last time, his teeth actually chattering as he digs through the change he’s holding.

“Jensen?”

Jensen blinks guiltily over at Adrianne who is just staring at him, eyebrows raised. 

“Black coffee. On it.” He scampers over to the coffeemaker and dumps out the old pot that’s been sitting there for hours, starting a new pot and looking at his reflection in the metal of the machine to make sure he doesn’t look too heinous before he turns back around, walking up to where the guy is waiting for his coffee, his book already out and clutched in one big hand.

“Hey, I’m makin--”

“Hey!” Cold Boy pulls that blinding grin out again, and Jensen bites down on his bottom lip to hold in his own.

“Hey. I’m, um. I’m making you some fresh coffee, okay? It’ll be a few minutes, but I’ll bring it out to you.”

“You’re too good to me,” the guy says quietly, leaning forward like it’s a secret. Jensen looks down and fusses with his apron, tugs on the bandage across his palm. A beat of silence passes between them, a heavy one, and it feels like warmth. When he looks up again, the guy is still watching him, ignoring the woman pushing past him to get to the counter and order her coffee, ignoring the line of tired New Yorkers behind him and the bustling crowd of the coffeeshop for Jensen. Ignoring all of them to smile at Jensen. 

He walks away, sinks back into the crowd and finally finds an empty chair at the bar along the wide window, facing out toward the street. It’s probably freezing over there, nothing but a thick pane of glass separating the guy from the blizzard he’d come in from.

“Adrianne, will you go get a tray of clean coffee cups? And turn the heat up while you’re back there, okay?” 

Adrianne disappears to the back after making sure to give Jensen a confused frown, and Sandy winks at Jensen when she takes Adrianne’s place at the register.

“Is that him?” she whispers, nodding over to where the guy is shivering in his seat, huddled down and blowing heat into the frozen skin of his fingers. Jensen nods distractedly while he starts on a mocha, wondering for the dozenth time this week why he’s so cold, why he doesn’t just stay home where it’s warm and wishing he could put himself in those hands and warm the guy up all on his own.

He pours a cup of fresh, hot coffee and doesn’t let himself overthink it as he heats up a banana-walnut muffin and sticks it on a plate, walking them over to the guy. He sets them both down in front of him, watching a frown tug on the guy’s mouth, a long strand of hair falling out of the ponytail as he shakes his head.

“No, no, I didn’t order--”

“It’s on the house,” Jensen shrugs, hands shoved nervously in his back pockets. “Gotta be nice to good readers. It’s not every day you meet somebody who reads Cormac McCarthy and John Fante.” He nods down at the battered copy of _The Road to Los Angeles_ on the counter in front of the guy, his smile warm when the guy meets his eyes.

“Well, thank you,” the guy finally says. He looks down at the muffin again, tugging it closer and smiling like he just can’t help it. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath that he lets out in a happy-sounding sigh. “Mm. Smells like banana bread.”

“I’m Jensen,” he says in a little burst of words, seemingly random, but if he doesn’t say it now, he knows he’ll beat himself up over it for the rest of the day.

“Jared.” Jared’s hands twitch on the coffee cup like he considers offering his hand for a shake only to change his mind. He shakes his head to get the fallen strand out of his eyes and turns those lovely eyes on Jensen again. “So, you approve of my book choices, huh?”

“If you come in reading Kerouac next, I might just have to propose.” 

Jared laughs, big and gorgeous and it’s like a burst of summer in the middle of a bitter winter’s day, pulling a smile so huge from Jensen’s mouth that it’s almost painful.

“I’ll see what I can do,” Jared replies, winking at Jensen before pulling his glasses on. Jensen can’t even pretend he’s not blushing, and he doesn’t have the confidence to hold Jared’s gaze while he does.

“Let me know if you need anything, alright?”

“Will do. Thanks, Jensen.” Jared’s features soften, and he looks genuinely touched, searching Jensen’s eyes like he’s found something, like there’s something there he wants to keep hold of. Jensen has never loved his name more than he does when it comes followed by the sweet, slow smile Jared gives him. He can only nod, directing his own smile down at his feet before he turns and hurries back to the counter.

Adrianne and Sandy are watching him, grinning like idiots when he ducks back under the counter, his own frown not deterring them for a second.

“Not a word,” he threatens, taking his place in front of the espresso machine, his heart thumping loud in his ears.

The rest of the evening flies by.

Jared is still there again when closing time comes around, and Jensen is ready this time when Jared stands up, stretching his long body and pushing his book back into his bag. Jensen’s right there next to him with a fresh cup, steam billowing out of the hole in the lid. Jared takes it without a word, his smile quiet, and Jensen swears that Jared is going to kiss him, that the air between them is charged with it.

“Thank you. Again. For everything.” 

Jared makes it all the way to the door before Jensen finally snaps out of it, his voice maybe a little too loud as he calls over to him.

“I’m heading over to Grassroots after this to grab a drink with some friends,” he offers, hands dancing over each other nervously. “J-Just. If you’re interested.”

Jared looks out through the glass on the door at the street outside, at the few people milling around out there, at the snow falling, coating the whole city in beautiful, deadly white.

“I probably shouldn’t,” he finally says, not looking over at Jensen for several beats. He turns his head toward him and catches his eyes for the briefest of moments, a strained smile making his mouth thin. “But thanks. Have a good night, okay?”

He opens the door, letting in a frigid burst of cold air before he ducks outside, head down, hands disappearing into his pockets.

Jensen’s left standing near the now empty chair, hands helpless at his sides, humiliation drawing out a deep, pink flush on his face.

 

The walk home from the bar that night is lonely, the streets slippery and abandoned, and Jensen wonders which ones of these tired sidewalks Jared has walked down today, which ones lead to where he is right now, where he sleeps.

He doesn’t know why he cares so much, why he can’t stop thinking about Jared and his cold hands and his sad eyes, but there’s absolutely nothing he can do to stop it.

 

Sunday is Jensen’s one consistent day off, and he takes Sundays very seriously. He sleeps in, watches at least two episodes of a TV show before he gets out of bed, and hauls his bag of laundry down the street to wash at the laundromat. 

He drops some quarters into the dryer and pulls his coat back on when it starts up, ducking back outside and up the street, heading for St. Mark’s Bookshop, his favorite place in the whole entire world. 

It’s warm and low-lit and crowded near the front, but he weaves past the people reading magazines and talking about shows they went to last night and heads for the back, for the fiction section, wanting to get his hands on some Kerouac, to read some lines and torture himself with the thought of the words being read in Jared’s voice.

Jensen stops in his tracks just a few feet from his destination, staring dumbly at the long, curled up body shoved up in the space between the two back bookcases, cheek resting on the painted concrete wall, _Dharma Bums_ open in his lap.

Jared.

Jensen moves toward him without stopping to consider that maybe he shouldn’t, that Jared had made it quite clear last night that he isn’t interested in Jensen the same way Jensen is interested in him, that maybe Jensen is just trying too damn hard. He lowers himself down into a crouch beside him, eyes drifting down to the small stack of books on top of Jared’s messenger bag.

“ _Howl_ is one of my favorite things in the entire universe. I mean, the whole entire universe.” He moves to sit down, grabbing the copy of the poem from the top of Jared’s stack, watching Jared jerk in surprise out of the corner of his eyes, watching him scramble to sit cross-legged, finger bookmarking his page.

Jensen looks over at him from the corner of his eyes, savoring how flustered Jared looks, how surprised.

“Yeah,” Jared stammers, licking his lips and reaching up to shove his hair behind his ears. “Yeah, the Beats were just… yeah. And Ginsberg was the fucking best of all of them.”

“Hard to be better than a radical, openly queer poet who survived the 50s,” Jensen replies, putting the book back on the pile and turning to face Jared now, mirroring his cross-legged position and smiling at him. “What’re you reading?”

“Oh.” Jared’s cheeks pink, and his eyes dark down to the book in his hands. “I just… you got me to thinking about him yesterday. Hadn’t read him in awhile, and today seemed like a good time to just--”

“Get lost in the words. Yeah.” Jensen nods, eyes lowered, watching Jared’s long hands, realizing randomly and suddenly that he’s never seen his hands without the gloves, never seen his palms, his knuckles. It obsesses him suddenly, makes him squirm. He looks up to find Jared watching him.

“I’m sorry about last night,” Jared says quietly, shifting again, his eyes lowering to the book, thumb stroking idly over the cover.

Jensen shrugs, glancing around them now, at the few people nearby, lost in their own worlds, ignoring Jared and Jensen completely. He loves New York for that, for how it gives you your own space, lets you get lost in your own head even though you’re packed in tight, surrounded by millions of people. It’s the only way to survive. 

“No worries. You didn’t have to come just because I asked.”

“It’s not that I didn’t want to come.” More fidgeting, more chilled fingers tucking thick brown hair behind his ears, more lowered eyes. Jensen just watches him, breath held. “It’s just… money’s kind of tight right now. Makes it kind of hard to be social, you know? Didn’t just wanna go to the bar and stand there like an idiot in front of your friends.”

“Oh,” Jensen breathes, blinking quickly as pieces start to fall into place. “But… I wouldn’t have…”

He lets the obvious go unsaid, focusing on the most important part of what Jared said.

“Why do you come to the coffeeshop, then? I mean, the coffee’s okay, but trust me, it’s cheaper to grab a can of Folgers from the grocery.” 

“The heat’s kind of out at my place. It’s in an old building, the insulation is for shit. I’m kind of behind on rent, so the landlord isn’t really in a huge hurry to fix it, you know?” Jared is practically mumbling now, his voice soft and embarrassed. “So I just hang out in different places after work for as long as I can. At least I can stay warm for a little while before I have to go home.”

“What about at night?” Jensen’s voice is just as quiet as Jared’s but it’s edged with concern, almost pleading. He moves closer, crowding in closer to Jared like he can keep him warm just with his own body heat, his hand twitching in his lap with the need to reach out for him. 

Jared shrugs, chewing on the inside of his cheek, his eyes now on Jensen’s hands, on the bandage wrapped around his right one. “Just bundle up. Just try to stay as warm as I can.”

_In this blizzard. In subzero temperatures in a drafty old apartment._

“Look, this might be kind of forward, and I’m sorry if I’m reading this wrong and just making a total ass out of myself, but,” Jensen rushes out, licking his lips nervously, “do you want to come home with me? I have a couple of roommates, but they’ll be watching football in the livingroom. We can order a pizza and just hang out in my room. We can watch TV or read or something. Just get out of this shitty weather. What do you say?”

He fully expects a ‘no,’ fully expects for Jared to tense up and fumble for an excuse and retreat, leaving Jensen alone and wordless again, and he braces himself for it.

He dares a glance up and is amazed to find a small, unreadable smile on Jared’s face, to find those amazing, strange eyes right on him.

“I say that sounds like… the best idea ever, actually.” Jared stands up, reaching down to offer Jensen his hand. Jared’s fingertips are still pink with cold, his nails bitten down, but his fingers are long and beautiful, like they could build cities or compose concertos or take Jensen apart down to the sum of his parts.

Jensen takes hold of that hand and stands up.

They put each book back where they go and detour to the laundromat to grab Jensen’s clothes before walking to Jensen’s apartment on Avenue B, talking about how much they wish they could’ve seen Jeff Buckley play at the Sin-é, mourning the loss of the 7A Cafe, and sticking close by each other, hands in their pockets but their shoulders pressed snugly, sweet in its easy comfort.

Jensen leads Jared up the four flights of stairs to his shoddy little apartment, Steve and Chris beside each other on the edge of the couch, some college game playoff game on Steve’s laptop screen. 

“There’s a pizza for you on the counter, Jen. Spicy and meaty, just the way you like it.” Chris tells him by way of greeting, and Jensen blushes, throwing a glare at Chris’s stupid back as he snatches up the pizza.

“Thanks, asshole.”

“No problem!” Chris grins over at him, somehow not surprised by Jared’s presence, even throwing in a wink that makes Jensen grab Jared’s arm and pull him toward his room.

“You can meet them later. They get a little crazy about talking during games,” Jensen explains, tossing his bag of laundry in the corner and setting the pizza on the bed so he can shed his coat and his gloves, leaving him in a henley and his jeans after he kicks of his shoes. He glances over at Jared, smiling for the way Jared is looking his room over, studying the books on his bookshelves and squinting at every picture tacked to the wall like he wants to know, wants to know it all, every book title and every face. 

Jensen makes his way over to him, hovering beside him before he takes a chance and touches Jared’s arm. “You can take your, um. Your coat off. If you want to. I’m gonna go grab us some drinks and napkins.”

“Sure.” Jared sounds distracted but he’s unzipping his jacket, shouldering it off along with his flannel shirt, leaving him in a plain black t-shirt that pulls tight across his back when he pulls his gloves off, stuffing them into the pockets of his jacket. He reaches up for a book on Jensen’s bookshelf, and Jensen has to tear his eyes off of him and walk away or he’s going to reach for him, touch him in some intimate way he’s not allowed to, not supposed to. 

_Not yet. He’s not yours yet._

He grabs the roll of paper towels and two Dr. Peppers from the fridge, shutting the door behind him and locking it as quietly as he can. Jared is sitting on his bed, boots still on his feet that are hanging over the edge, and he’s got his glasses on again and he has _Howl_ open, lips moving over the words as he reads them.

He glances up when Jensen returns, closing the book and setting it on the nightstand, giving Jensen a sheepish little smile. “I like your notes in the margins. I love reading books that people have written in.”

“Me, too. It’s like they’re reading it with me. If that makes sense.” He sinks down onto the bed beside Jared, ignoring the loud dance of his heart against his ribcage and opening the pizza box, handing Jared a can and a napkin and helping himself to a still-warm slice.

There’s a warm, soft mouth against his temple, Jared’s breath washing hot over his skin, and Jensen stops what he’s doing, letting his eyes fall closed, savoring. His breath shudders in his throat.

“Thank you,” Jared breathes against his skin, lips slipping down to his cheek while that sweet nose grazes the side of his face, nuzzling there. Jensen turns in to him the slightest bit, dipping his head until their noses are sliding together, mouths ghosting, sharing warm air before they’re pulling away again.

Jensen opens his eyes and Jared’s are right there, so close, the teal-green and amber of them seeming to glow in the low light from the lamp. Everything feels so perfect, so slow and sweet and important, like he’s folding up every second between them, saving them to remember later. 

Jared drags his nose over the line of Jensen’s jaw, breathing deep there before he sits up again, letting out a breath he’d obviously been holding in a long, contented sigh.

“Do you like _Arrested Development_?” Long, finally-bare hands grabbing a slice of pizza, and Jensen just stares at him, shaking his head in disbelief.

“No, seriously. I’m going to propose to you. It’s going to be so embarrassing for me, but I’m not going to be able to help it.”

Jared laughs just as he bites down on the pizza and Jensen nudges him with a grin before he reaches over for his laptop. 

They watch two episodes, and they’re snuggled down in the bed by the end of it, shoes off and blankets over them, Jensen’s head resting on Jared’s warm chest when the credits roll. Jared reaches up to close the laptop and move it to the bedside table, and he comes back with Jensen’s copy of _Howl._

“Can I read to you for a little bit?”

“Will you marry me?”

Jared snorts, and it’s so graceless that Jensen has to laugh. He opens his eyes and peers up at Jared, smiling when Jared looks right back down at him, their mouths so close again.

“You’re proposing to me and I haven’t even kissed you yet,” Jared reasons, his voice low with contentment, the words soft because Jensen’s mouth is so close. “I could be a pretty terrible kisser, and you’d never know until it was too late.”

Jensen turns over until he’s facing him, hand braced on Jared’s strong chest, fingers spread out over one of his pecs that he can’t help but rub in slow circles.

“You’re absolutely right. You need to fix that immediately.”

“Yeah, I do,” Jared mumbles against his lips, one side of his mouth tugging up in a tiny smile before he closes the space between them, melting their mouths together in the slowest, most perfect first kiss Jensen’s ever had. He whimpers as he parts his lips just enough for Jared’s tongue to slip inside, to tease at the soft skin inside of Jensen’s bottom lip. One of Jared’s hands pushes underneath his shirt, slides up his spine in a quiet rush of bare skin on skin, pulling a slow arch out of Jensen that drives his mouth closer to Jared’s, deepening their kiss.

Jared tugs his mouth away only to kiss down Jensen’s chin, along the curve of his jaw and down his neck, licking kisses there that has Jensen panting, goosebumps flying all over his body, his mouth sucked deep pink and parted to pant up at the ceiling. He sinks his fingers into Jared’s hair, stroking it back lazily while his eyes flutter closed.

“I think I can safely say that you aren’t a terrible kisser,” he manages to get out, a shiver driving hard up his spine when he feels Jared’s mouth slide down his throat, teeth grazing, tongue pressing into his pulse.

“Well then,” Jared murmurs, both hands on Jensen’s back now, pushing up his shirt to get at more skin, “the answer is yes.”

Jensen wraps his arms around Jared’s neck just as Jared’s slide around his back, pulling him in tighter to flip them over, pressing Jensen down into the bed and slipping between his legs while their mouths blindly find each other again.

It doesn’t occur to him that they could be moving too fast, that one of them might be joking about the proposal, that he is already in love with the man lacing their fingers together and pressing Jensen’s hands into the mattress. It all feels simple and clear and easy between them, and every single kiss feels like _finally. You’re here._


End file.
